


blue ain't your color

by pleurer



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (one or both), ADVENTURE!, Aphrodisiacs, Frottage, Hand Jobs, IN SPACE!, M/M, One character thinks the other is intensely hot but entirely unattainable, Pining, Smut, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-11 21:50:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19935055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pleurer/pseuds/pleurer
Summary: Peter’s calendar for the weekend had involved things like studying for his Chemistry midterm, patrolling the neighbourhood, and maybe squeezing in a lunch with Ned and MJ. Becoming Tony Stark’s fake boyfriend overnight had not been on the schedule— never mind going to outer space and infiltrating an alien cult.





	blue ain't your color

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wednesday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wednesday/gifts).



> Your signup had some of my favourite tropes ever, so I just had to write you this treat! I hope you enjoy. <3 
> 
> Set post-IW. I’m picturing Peter as being around 18, but it's up to you.
> 
> Redated for exchange author reveals.

Peter’s calendar for the weekend had involved things like studying for his Chemistry midterm, patrolling the neighbourhood, and maybe squeezing in a lunch with Ned and MJ. Becoming Tony Stark’s fake boyfriend overnight had not been on the schedule— never mind going to outer space and infiltrating an alien cult. 

Working with the Guardians wasn’t a new thing, but Peter and Tony working with the Guardians  _ together  _ was. It wasn’t every day there was a mission big enough that they needed all that manpower. The problem with all that manpower, though, was that no one on the team could agree on who to be backup versus who to be the undercover couple. At first it was Thor and Rocket, but Mr. Starlord declared that nobody needed to see that, and then somebody pointed out that nobody needed to see him and Gamora either, so they resorted to the very human method of drawing straws. 

By some stroke of luck, Tony drew the short one. Peter wasn’t sure which was harder to believe— that he didn’t try to argue his way out of it, or that he picked Peter to be his fake husband. Peter hadn’t even thought of himself as a candidate with all those beautiful alien ladies and a literal god. For a moment, he let the butterflies in his stomach spread their wings, until Tony turned to him and said, “This is strictly professional, mind you, and only because you’re the one I trust most out of this ragtag bunch, so don’t go getting any ideas.”

“Not a problem,” Peter said rather truthfully. Peter was full of ideas when it came to Tony, but none of them were new, and he had years of practice holding them at bay.

So here he is now, hand in hand with the one and only Tony Stark at some social gathering slightly reminiscent of the ones held at Stark Industries. Except this one is a couples-only event, and also takes place in some alien lair, a cross between a stone cave and a banquet hall. The crowd buzzing around them comes in all shapes and sizes, with any number of eyes or none at all, and they’re dressed in various shades of blue clothing. The decorations on the wall are blue, as are the plates and utensils. Even the drink in Peter’s hand is blue. It’s also twice as strong as anything he could get at an Earth bar— and this one doesn’t even need a fake ID.

“Whoa,” says Peter, bracing an arm against Tony to keep his balance. 

“Careful, sweetheart,” says Tony, keeping a hand at his waist, much lower than Peter ever thought he’d be allowed the guilty pleasure of experiencing. 

“Sorry,” says Peter. Half of his blood is rushing to his face. The other half is going in the opposite direction. It’s the proximity, the intimacy, the— God, the  _ pet name. _ One misstep and Mr. Stark’s hand would slip and land right on his ass. Peter wanted so badly to know how that would feel. It was driving him crazy. He was a superpowered teenager, with senses dialed to eleven in a situation where he had no experience with dialing them back. He takes another sip of the drink to cool himself down. It doesn’t work. The fabric just gets tighter and tighter around his hard-on.

“What’s in that drink?” says Tony, eyes narrowing. 

“I don’t know,” says Peter. “It’s good. Want to try?”

“I wasn’t asking you,” says Tony. “FRIDAY, what’s in the drink?”

“The blue substance is native to this planet,” FRIDAY pipes up. “It is known to have an aphrodisiac effect.”

“Fuck,” says Tony. He drags a hand through his hair, and it sticks up in odd directions. “Peter, I thought we agreed to stick to the script. To not do anything that would get us in trouble.”

“S-sorry,” says Peter. “It would’ve been rude to refuse the drink. It looked— good.” Peter closes his eyes to shut out the embarrassment when his voice goes high on the  _ good.  _

“It’s not your fault,” says Tony. His jaw clenches. “Trust these shitty aliens to have a space orgy and call it a  _ social gathering.  _ Talk about culture shock. God, I should have known this would be a bad idea. ”

“I have a really good idea,” says Peter, though it’s not so much an idea as an  _ urge.  _ He rolls his crotch against Tony’s thigh, and it feels like having a gulp of water, cooling, relaxing. Tony holds out a hand to stop him. 

“Peter. Kid. Just— stop for a second,” says Tony under his breath, noticing the way that a couple spectators have paused to look at them. “Let’s get you somewhere safe and sort this out.” He knocks Peter’s drink over and purposely spills it onto his clothes. “Whoops,” he says loudly and drags Peter away, down a stone hallway and past a couple that’s draping themselves all over each other, drinks in hand. “Definitely a space orgy,” says Tony. Peter can’t even respond, because with every step, he feels like he could go off at any time.

As soon as they find an empty room and regain their privacy, Peter presses himself up against Tony and starts rubbing himself off against his thigh, letting out a high-pitched moan. “Sorry,” he says, finding that he means it less and less each time.

“Jesus, kid,” says Tony. His voice shakes. “Stop apologizing, alright? Let’s just get it out of your system, and—  _ shit. _ ”

Peter’s rocked right into Tony’s crotch this time, only to find that Tony’s hard, too. 

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Stark,” says Peter. Amidst the haze of desire clouding his brain, he tries to pull himself back, but he can’t remove himself from Tony at all, the need overpowering everything else. 

“Not your fault,” says Tony, sounding strained. 

“It is,” says Peter, hips jerking against Tony. He smells so  _ good,  _ it’s making Peter’s head spin, and it’s not even the drug— he always smells good, looks good, feels so warm and safe. “I— I want this— want you. Wanted you for so long. The drug just— made everything worse. I’m sorry.”

“Okay. Okay,” says Tony, a look of conviction on his face, mixed in with something darker that Peter can’t quite read. “Okay. We’re doing this. Come on.” He hits the spider in the center of Peter’s chest, and the nanotech peels away, exposing the part he needs it to. He does the same to his own armor, and Peter whines, hips jerking up at how incredibly hot that is. 

“Do you have a nanotech kink?” says Tony, amused, as he holds their cocks together and strokes. 

“I—  _ ah—  _ I might,” says Peter. Tony’s talking like this is just any sexual encounter, not at all induced by the drug in Peter’s drink, and Peter’s grateful for the semblance of normalcy. Out of all the people he could be stuck with in this situation, he’s glad it’s someone he trusts, someone who knows what he’s doing. Tony gives long, slow strokes that send shivers up Peter’s spine. He rocks his hips against Peter’s in the perfect rhythm, strokes the pad of his thumb across the head of Peter’s cock and rubs circles into Peter’s hip with his other hand, and all Peter can do is let the fire building in the pit of his stomach burn hot, hot through every part of his body.

It doesn’t take long at all for Peter to come with a muffled cry into Tony’s shoulder, spilling all over Tony’s hand. Tony goes to wipe the hand on his own armour, but Peter, before he can think better of it, grabs Tony’s gauntlet. He takes his armored fingers into his own mouth, and sucks them clean. Tony comes like a hair trigger, shaky curse muttered under his breath. He shakes through it, and Peter keeps a hand on his back, steady. 

When they’re both done catching their breaths, Peter looks at Tony. Tony doesn’t look back at him. For a moment, Peter’s heart sinks. This could be it. It could all be over. But then Peter looks down at the mess between both of them, and the evidence that Tony had enjoyed it.

“You came, too,” says Peter. It’s more of an unsaid question than a statement.

“That makes it worse,” says Tony, voice raw. 

Peter swallows hard. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” says Tony, “that we need to have a long conversation about this later.”

Peter wants to have it  _ now,  _ but he quickly realizes that’s not possible. As soon as he looks up, he realizes they’re being closed in on by a large, looming crowd of aliens. The drug must’ve done something to block out his Peter tingle. Good thing it was quickly fading away. He’d need that extra intuition for this fight.

“You’re not one of us,” says the alien at the front, in a threateningly low snarl. 

“What tipped you off?” says Tony. “The stunning good looks? The lack of exhibitionism?”

“The blue,” the alien replies. “You were the only ones who did not follow the dress code.”

“I don’t know,” says Tony. “Red seems a lot more sensual, more on-brand for a party like this. We’re trendsetters, really. You should thank us.”

They do so by raising their guns in unison.

“Target acquired,” says Peter into the communicator, because they’ve gone off-script for long enough. “Targets, actually. Lots of them.”

“On our way,” Starlord replies, as the crowd of aliens back Peter and Tony against the wall, shoulder to shoulder.

“Can you at least tell me one thing?” says Peter to Tony. “Do you regret it? What we did?”

“No,” says Tony. “I don’t.” He’s fully suited up now with his mask on, and his body’s angled away from Peter, but their backs are pressed together, and Peter thinks of what he’d said earlier—  _ you’re the one I trust most out of this ragtag bunch.  _

__

Peter thinks he might be looking forward to that conversation after all. But right now, they’ve got a fight to win.

__

__


End file.
